Papers Of Passage
by Gargoyle13
Summary: A private moment with each Knight after receiving their papers of passage and realizing what it means to them. Slightly AU - no final mission, no one is dead. Will encompass Knights from movie and pre-movie/legend.
1. Galahad

**Disclaimer:** Movie or legend, I don't own any of them.

**A/N: **These do not adhere to the movie and will likely include some of the Knights of legend as well. I chose to have the Knights receive their papers of passage directly from Arthur with no "final mission". Therefore, yes, Dag lives and will have a chapter.

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Galahad shut the door firmly behind him and rested his forehead on the thick, knotted oak. Fifteen years he had stared at that door. Fifteen years he had dragged himself back in various states: angry; frightened; sick; tired; cold; sweaty; intoxicated; battered, bruised and bloody; with and without company. Fifteen years…

Snorting softly, a habit he blamed on Gawain, Galahad closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling the scratch of wood on his forehead. He'd never truly believed he would live to see the day that he stood outside his quarters, bidding them farewell for the final time. More than a few times during his tenure, Galahad had figured he was done for. Injuries had bled profusely, the crimson torrent slowly dwindling, finally ceasing under the pressure of multiple bandages and pleas from his brothers to fight, to live, not to leave them. Cold that had frozen him to his core, made him wonder if death wouldn't be warmer and perhaps he should just succumb and find out. And, always, Dagonet's herbal remedies foisted upon you…making you wish sometimes you were dead just so you could stop drinking them.

Callused, aching fingers wrapped tighter around the scroll in his left hand. Arthur had distributed the scrolls during a small ceremony two days ago and Galahad hadn't let it out of his sight, well, at all. Even when the Knights had celebrated at the tavern, he'd tucked it into the waist of his kilt and spent all night constantly touching it, re-assuring himself that it was real and still there.

Fifteen years of slavery, of forced duty, were done. For the first time he could recall, Galahad took a deep breath and didn't feel the oppressive grip of Rome around his throat. He'd passionately insisted that he would leave, not look back, and these fifteen years would be like a bad dream…Galahad knew he was wrong about that. How did you just forget or convince yourself that all the things you'd done, all the men you'd slaughtered in the name of a power you loathed, were a dream, or, more accurately, a nightmare?

"Galahad?"

Smiling, Galahad turned to look at his brother, Gawain, approaching down the narrow hall. Gawain was returning to Sarmatia as well. They would make the ride, just as they had done so many other things, together. At least to the borders of Sarmatia; Galahad was uncertain what would happen after that – if he would go home with Gawain north, to the lands of the Aorsi or if he would go further south, to his home, the lands of the Iazyges.

"Ready?" Gawain was smiling brightly and Galahad nodded, stepping away from the door with one final pat. He had time to decide. For once, time was on his side.

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**A/N:** This series of shorts grew out of an email exchange with _Lycanus1 (a super creative writer whose stuff you really ought to read)_. So I have crashed two of _Lycanus1's _stories and lifted an idea from our conversations. I am currently seeking a 12-step rehab program.


	2. Bors

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of them nor am I making any money off this.

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Bors sat quietly, staring into the tankard engulfed by his huge paws. They'd finally arrived a few days ago: papers of passage for the last group of Sarmatian Knights. Anywhere in the Roman Empire, they could go, travel as free men… Bors snorted and shook his head. Some godsdamned paper and blessing from Rome didn't mean a bloody thing – he'd always been a free man; at least on the inside, where it mattered. A few of his brethren had needed the reassurance, needed the feel of that scroll in their hands. Bors had tossed his on a chest of drawers in his and Van's bedroom that night and not touched it, barely even glanced at it since.

He thought back to a day ago… He'd gone in search of his cousin, Dagonet, to inquire what the giant intended to do. Dag had stated matter-of-factly that he would be making the ride back to Sarmatia, not staying by his cousin's side as a "royal arse kisser". Bors had been flabbergasted; it was the last thing he'd guessed Dag would do. He'd expected Dag would stay, find a nice woman and settle down – raise a few little bastards of his own. Not necessarily as a royal arse kisser, but his healing skills and calm head were certainly needed. It had escalated into a shouting match… Well, truthfully, it had been him shouting and Dagonet listening in that quiet way of his. Who was going to do that once Dag was gone?

Bors had meant what he said to his brothers the other night; though he couldn't prove it, he felt very safe asserting that everyone he knew there was dead. He could stay here and be near dead people he knew far better than those back in Sarmatia.

Besides, he had…eleven children…and this was the only home they knew, the home they loved; further, it was the home Vanora loved. And Bors loved them and her. Even more than he loved Sarmatia. Even more than he loved and would miss his cousin.


	3. Dagonet

**Disclaimer:** Own no one and nothing except the idea.

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Dagonet leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Since receiving that itty, bitty piece of paper, he'd found this more and more relaxing. Of course he'd done it regularly during his service; used the solitude of his room to ground his spirit, most often when they'd ridden back carrying a corpse instead of alongside a brother. But now…it was different – took less effort to settle his thoughts and find his reserve of peace. Perhaps just knowing that the single piece of paper he'd waited so damn long for was finally in his possession somehow made it easier to relax, to envision life after leaving all this behind. Because that was indeed what he intended to do, no matter how many fits his cousin threw, how much he insisted Dag stay and be his royal arse kisser… Even when Bors had fought dirty and tried to use the children against him…moaned at him to think of their welfare – who would look after healing their injuries, cure their ills and, well, who was going to be their dear old Uncle Dag, godsdamnit? Dag shook his head and snorted quietly. For all his rough and tumble, bluster and swagger, Bors was really an old softie at heart. Just like him.

In truth, during Bors' tirade, Dag had felt his resolve weakening, had felt the stab of pain, of guilt, at leaving his closest family behind. He still felt that small pang of…something. Not quite guilt – he'd gotten over that fairly quickly once he thought about all the wretched, vile things he'd seen and done in the name of Rome. Freedom and a chance to choose his own fate was something he'd earned, something he'd sweated and bled for; healed and buried men who had become closer than brothers.

No, Dagonet shook his head with a small, quiet smile. He would be returning to Sarmatia. To the plains he yearned so deeply to see again. Silver eyes twinkled in anticipation. He was returning to the life he should have had from the beginning, to the life he dreamed of in the darkest hours of night; the images as steady as the pulse in his veins. Would he find a woman and raise a family, much as his dear cousin had done? Of that, Dag wasn't certain. All Dag knew for certain was that he intended to lay down his sword and be a shepherd; to find some sheep…or some goats…or perhaps a few of each…


	4. Tristan

**Disclaimer:** No one and nothing. Still.

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The cemetery was still in the dark of night. Just the way he preferred it. No one bothering him – well, in as much as one could term what they did bothering him. Most of his brethren left him alone and let him be in his quiet, contemplative state. He spoke when he needed to, when he felt he had something to add to the discussion – which was infrequently. He'd learned long ago that these Romans did not value his opinion, nor did they heed his words.

Blinking slowly, Tristan looked around him. From his crouched position near the top of the cemetery hill, he could see every grave. Sadly, he knew far too many of the sword-markers by their outline alone; did not need the harsh light of day to tell him which brother lay where and next to whom. He'd been there when they'd been laid down, pitched in and dug many the final resting nook of a dear companion gone far too soon. With each one, Rome had assumed they'd broken him a bit more, made him and his life harder. Oh how wrong they had been. Each one had set a bit more of Tristan free…knowing within that it was one less brother wearing the shackles of Roman duty. Just as he would be one day: free, either through death or official release.

Glancing over his shoulder, he knew she was there. Though he'd set her free the previous morn, he knew if he held his arm out, she would be there in an instant. It was a familiar perch, built through years of patience – for both of them, if Tristan were completely honest. He found her presence as soothing and she seemed to find his. Many times, she'd been the only soul that understood him, accepted him and, on occasion, was the only one brave enough to defy him.

Rising gracefully, Tristan threaded his way through the mounds, patting various hilts and reverently stroking some blades as he passed – whispering soundless words through barely moving lips. He would have asked their understanding, their pardon…but he knew there was nothing for them to understand, nothing that needed pardoning for they saw and understood all. His living brethren would be far more difficult, would handle his non-explanation far worse.

Smiling briefly, Tristan whistled and held his arm out, hearing the soft rush and feeling the light weight settle on his wrist. She nudged at his thumb with her beak as if to say "I've been waiting – what took you so long?" as he gently stroked her breast and turned his gaze to the stars.


	5. Gawain

**Disclaimer:** Still the same. No money, no ownership, nothing.

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Gawain sat with the small scroll clenched in white-knuckled, shaking hands. It was here. His paper of passage was in his hands. Service to Rome was ended and he was free. He wasn't quite sure what that meant right at the moment, but that didn't matter. He'd survived and he was free. They'd all survived and they were all free to do…whatever freedom meant to each of them. To him it meant Sarmatia, a beautiful wife and many children.

Standing on shaky legs, Gawain took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. Memories flooded his thoughts – good ones and bad ones alike, he welcomed them, let them wash over him. Somehow now they felt different. The good somehow felt better – even happier if that were possible; the sore spots somehow felt a little less, well, sore. Could it be that this piece of paper was in some way wiping it all away? That wasn't possible, was it? How could a piece of paper with writing he'd never understand, likely never even be able to read, scrub away years of dirt, of blood, of sweat and tears and pain…?

Smiling to himself, Gawain gently placed the scroll inside his warchest; resting his hand on it a moment longer his smile turned sad as he thought of all those brothers who would never receive their papers, never return to Sarmatia. Squaring his shoulders, Gawain closed the lid of the chest and slid the lock bolt across, determined that their names would never die so long as he drew breath. He would make it his mission, his final mission as it might be, to ensure that the names and legends of the great Sarmatian Knights would never be forgotten. Just how he was going to do that…Gawain supposed he'd figure that out when he needed to. After all, he'd always been good at thinking on his feet. Just ask his brethren, they'd tell you so.

For now though…well, for now, Gawain was content to make his way to the tavern, share a few rounds of Vanora's finest and find out what everyone else's plans entailed. After all, the ride to Sarmatia was a long one and if his only companions were Galahad and possibly Lancelot…goddess help him it would be a long, miserable ride and more likely than not, his axe would end up planted between Lancelot's eyes long before they reached Sarmatia's borders. And Gawain would have yet one more legend to remember.


	6. Lancelot

**Disclaimer:** Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zip.

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Lancelot sat on the ground in the stable, twirling the tightly rolled piece of paper in his hands, making it dance up and down nimble fingers. Paper of passage. Paper of freedom. Worthless paper from Rome telling him that he was of no longer of use to them and he was dismissed, rather like a petulant child. Smiling ruefully, Lancelot pressed the scroll to his forehead and sighed. What to do now?

Jokingly, he'd wound Gawain up endlessly about returning to Sarmatia and siring many handsome children with Gawain's beautiful Sarmatian wife. For that plan to work though, it first meant Gawain actually had to find a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed (and that would wed him) and, second of all, that Lancelot wanted to spend that much time around Gawain (and his axe). And likely Galahad since the Pup followed Gawain absolutely everywhere… As much as he loved his brothers and especially loved winding Gawain up, fifteen years with them had been more than enough.

Sighing, Lancelot turned the scroll end over end in his hand. Was there really anything left in Sarmatia worth going home for or to? He wasn't sure he had any skills, other than hunting, that would lend themselves to life as a nomad. More importantly, he wasn't truly certain he had any desire to live that life any more; as much as he'd despised this life, it had been nice to know where home was, that a hot meal waited, where his bed was…and, of course, the bevy of available beauties willing to share that bed hadn't been horrible either.

Lancelot wondered if he ought to take Arthur's offer and accompany him to Rome; see the sights, hear what the greatest minds in the world had to say…find out if Roman women were half as good-looking as he imagined. Smirking and laughing, Lancelot stood and shook black curls. Perhaps he ought to go run that one past Arthur …


	7. Arthur

**Disclaimer:** Yet again, I say unto thee: nothing's mine.

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His quarters were lit brightly by the fire in the hearth, shadows from its flames flickering and dancing on the walls. Arthur sat quietly with a goblet of wine and old, musty duty books on the table next to him. In these were logged the names of each Sarmatian brought to Britain, forced into servitude by an ages old agreement made by men who were long since dust. Arthur wondered if any of them had thought about what they were sentencing generations of Sarmatian boys to; not that they had a choice – if they hadn't surrendered, if they hadn't agreed, Rome would have slaughtered them and forced the servitude anyway. At least this way, they had been able to negotiate a time period of service for each boy: fifteen years. The prime of their lives spent here, serving a master they did not know, did not like and that did not care about them.

Arthur snorted as he recalled how proud he had been to become Commanding Officer of the fabled Sarmatian Knights, despite the ridicule it had earned him from the other "respected" Roman officers. He had come into the position with little actual battle experience, but that had changed quickly. Unlike his immediate predecessor, he'd relied on and trusted the Sarmatians experience and wisdom on the field; let them help him marshal them to victory after victory. And, in his proudest moment of all, they had accepted him into their brotherhood, declared him a Knight and called him brother instead of commander. It had repulsed the core of Roman officers on the island and, secretly, Arthur relished that.

A weary hand rested on the service books and Arthur felt the grief surge in his soul. Not every boy logged in these books had lived to manhood and of those that had, not all of them had returned home. They'd given their lives where it was deemed "too barbaric" for Roman blood to be spilt, to be wasted. When their papers of passage had arrived, Arthur had found their closest relative – a wife, lover, son, daughter or best friend – and given the scroll to that person. Many times they'd simply accepted it with a confused look and shrug; a few though had asked him to read the foreign script, the unknown words, wanting to hear the magical, mystical words from Rome that would free their loved one from bondage. Each time, the words brought tears to his eyes, sent him reeling back to his quarters sick to his stomach and aching in his soul.

Smiling sadly, Arthur listened to the hooting of his Knights; he had, a few hours earlier, had the honour and privilege of bestowing their papers of passage. Along with them had come word of his discharge from the Roman army – he was free to go and do as he pleased. Arthur laughed quietly and looked around, amused that all he could imagine doing was exactly what he was right now…

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**A/N:** Thus ends the Knights of the movie and I thank you for reading. I am torn if I want to pursue any of the Knights of pre-movie. After all, this is fanfic and artistic license is a beautiful thing.


	8. Mouse

**Disclaimer:** I own none.

**A/N:** OK…so I've moved along to the Knights who were not in the movie but should've been in my humble opinion. Some of these are Knights of legend; this particular chapter is a character I created. Note though that even the Knights of legend I have tinkered with and sometimes given entirely different personalities than what you might be used to. If that bothers you, please go no further.

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Mouse spun the tightly wound scroll on the tabletop, not even attempting to stop it as it teetered briefly on the table edge before dropping to the floor. His paper of freedom. Of passage. Of release. Lying on the floor and, honestly, Mouse wasn't quite certain he gave a damn.

Sighing heavily, Mouse scratched his head in an itchy spot; deciding it felt pretty good and took his mind off things, he proceeded to run his fingers briskly across his entire scalp – front to back and then back to front. His fingers stopped, entwined in some of the thick, long white-blonde strands when he felt something…something that didn't quite seem to belong. Furrowing his brow intently, the smallest of the Sarmatian Knights picked and pulled at the spot where the foreign object was lodged. Finally able to grasp and tug it free, Mouse disentangled his fingers and brought the offending object into his line of vision.

A seed pod from one of the dense shrubs he'd crawled through a couple of days ago was pinched firmly between small, slim fingers. Fingers that, very often, his brethren had said were more fitting to be on the hand of a child than a Knight.

Smiling sheepishly, Mouse muttered to himself about being more thorough next time he bathed. Although it hadn't truly been his fault that he'd hurried and missed a few spots. Honestly. It had been those stupid bloody hooting and hollering Roman pigs who'd disturbed his tranquility, forcing him to exit the baths hastily cause you never wanted to be trapped in the baths with those disgusting animals.

Tiptoeing out of his quarters, Mouse listened carefully. The Knights' barracks were silent. The past day and night had been spent drinking and carrying on in celebration of receiving their papers by both the Knights who were now free of Rome's shackles and their brethren who still had many years to go. Even Agravaine had indulged in more than a few tankards…

Silently Mouse crept over to said Knight's door and pressed his ear to it. All the slight man heard was deep snoring from within, which brought a smile to his face. They'd all been afraid that Agravaine, completely piss-faced drunk, would end up in a brawl and locked up in a Roman cell…thankfully, that hadn't been the case.

Contemplation furrowed Mouse's brow again as he turned and leaned against the heavy oak door, allowing himself to slide down the wooden surface to the floor where he sat, cross-legged, and studied his hands. He had no idea what Grav was planning to do…and, therefore, no idea what he was going to do. Mouse had only ever known being Grav's lackey, as the others had called him – sometimes in jest, sometimes in contempt, but always with a healthy dose of respect.

Letting his head fall back against the door, Mouse shrugged as he yawned. Brown eyes drifted closed and his thoughts drifted to the man sleeping behind the door he leaned against. Whatever Grav chose to do, wherever he chose to go, Mouse was certain he would follow…after all, it was all he truly knew how to do.


	9. Mordred

**Disclaimer:** Same as always.

**A/N:** Again drawing from Knights not in the film and they have been altered to fit my own view. Italics indicate thoughts/memories in this chapter.

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Mordred's broad shoulders slumped as he shook long, dark locks and bit back a humourless laugh. Bright blue eyes squeezed shut in private pain before opening and staring at the small house. If he strained his hearing, he could hear her; hear Jules singing to herself as she went about whatever it was she did besides fill his bed and keep him from going crazy…

"_They're ours, Dred…our papers… We can go home now. Home."_

"I'm not going home, baby brother. This is my home now…this is where I belong…" Dred's voice was soft and he winced slightly as he recalled the flash of surprise, of pain…and then the outrage on Agravaine's face.

"_Not going? Quit messing about, Dred… Are you honestly telling me you're staying here? Why?"_

Smirking, Dred recalled the sputtering, incredulous tone of Grav's voice as he questioned and questioned; Dred had tried to shrug Grav off, tried to walk away. Of course, Dred had known his little brother would never let it go that easily. "Life, Grav. Somewhere during all this whatever it was, I got a life…and…I like this life."

"_You mean her… So here's what you do, Dred… Bring her with. Toss her up on your horse and we'll be gone."_

Mordred remembered snorting in his brother's face. "As if Jules is a woman that you just toss up on your horse and go…idiot. Jules is going nowhere and, so, neither am I."

Grav's silence had put Dred on alert. A silent Grav was a deadly Grav and even though he was older, Dred knew that would never stop his opportunistic brother. Hell, it wouldn't have stopped him if the roles were reversed. Always take the advantage and always press the advantage – that was what being a Sarmatian Knight under Rome had taught them. And, truthfully, Mordred was tired of it. So very tired. He just wanted to settle down now, with his woman, and perhaps raise a few children. Grow old and weary and complain about how his back ached and old battle injuries were bothersome as the cold weather settled in; not trek back to Sarmatia to, well, gods only knew what.

"_But we were always going back, Dred. You and I…back to those rocks, where we used to play…we were going to take our shields and place them among the others from our tribe, to let everyone know we'd been to this hell-hole and we'd survived…that we were home…"_

Smiling tightly and again squeezing his eyes shut, Dred recalled the soft pleading in his brother's voice this time…like when they were kids and Grav wanted something from him. And Dred's resolve had begun to crumble, just as it always did when his brother used that tone and fixed those clear blue eyes on him. Then he'd heard her – whether it had been with his ears or just a memory in his mind, he wasn't certain – but Dred had heard Jules, whispering his name, calling him softly…

"I am sorry, Grav. If you do indeed go, I wish you a safe and quick journey home. But my shield and I stay here. Where my life is."


	10. Agravaine

**Disclaimer:** Yet again, no money is being made. If it was, believe me, I'd quit my day job so quick it'd make your head spin.

**A/N:** The Knights, as they appear in this story, are separate from any other story. Meaning, if they have a "significant other", that person does not exist for the purpose of this story, unless expressly noted by the Knight.

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Stupid Mordred going back on his promise…on his word…on his oath… Agravaine pounded a heavy fist against the solid table in his quarters. Stupid Jules stealing away his brother and enticing him to break his word to his blood… Grav briefly toyed with the idea of simply knocking Dred unconscious, heaving him across a horse and starting for home, but instinctively knew it would be a losing battle in the end. Mordred always got what Mordred wanted…and in this case, it was to stab his brother in the back and stay here on this wretched, sickening isle with _that_ woman.

Grav surveyed his quarters, mentally accounting for everything that had once been either on shelves or in drawers and now was neatly packed into two large trunks; and of those, only one really mattered: the one with all the weapons he'd acquired through the years.

But still, how could Mordred do this to him? Didn't his brother understand that had been the sole thing that had kept him going all these years? Kept him alive all those times he'd been ready to simply give in and let some Woad take his life? The thought that, one day, the two of them would get these little scrolls, that they'd be the ones having their names called…noted as the survivors, as the fortunate ones who got to go home…

He'd tried…oh, goddess, how he'd tried to convince Dred to change his mind and return to Sarmatia with him. Had tried to convince him that their sister would remember them…that she would welcome them, was, in fact, waiting and counting on their return… When that had failed, he'd tried to remind Dred of his promise so many years ago of the cool morning when the Romans had come calling, taken them both from their parents' embraces. Mordred because it had been his time; Grav because, well, the Romans had deemed him "big enough" to make a "valuable contribution" to the campaign. Squeezing clear blue eyes shut, Grav choked back the memories that assaulted him: his father's angry shouts and pleas that he was too young; the Roman Centurion's laughter and threat that if Grav didn't come, they'd slaughter everyone; and his mother's plaintive cry as they rode away…

Shaking long auburn locks and grasping his scroll of freedom tightly, Agravaine gave the room one final glance before turning and exiting, shutting the door as firmly as he was closing this chapter of his life. The only thing in front of him now was Sarmatia and life there…it was an unknown, but as far as he was concerned if he'd survived and thrived here, he could do the same at home.


	11. Kay

**Disclaimer:** Hear ye, Hear ye…I make no monetary funds off anything I post here.

**A/N:** The Knights, as they appear in this story, are separate from any other story mainly because in most of the other stories they are, sadly enough, deceased.

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Kay slowly made his way to the modest dwelling. He mused on the morning briefing at which their papers had been distributed – amongst much Roman pomp and ceremony, of course. Somehow, he'd expected more jubilation from his brothers; after all, they'd been waiting and fighting fifteen years for these small, insignificant pieces of paper.

He paused and clutched the tightly bound paper. They were insignificant compared to all the lives lost; all the heinous things Rome had taught innocent boys to do – and expected them to do without flinching, or risk severe punishment…and Kay knew what bloodthirsty monsters it had turned some of those boys into. He saw them every morning at briefings, listened to them laugh over tankards…watched them brutally carry out Rome's edicts on patrol or during battle. Those were the men Kay felt sorry for – the ones who had learned to live for and thrive on the blood spilt, who had found their identity based on the number of Woad corpses that littered the field…

Shaking his head, Kay suddenly felt very tired and sore. Every year of his service seemed to settle on him at once, weighing him down and making every fibre of his being ache. Old battle injuries reared their head and Kay catalogued each with a grimace. As he did, the exhaustion of years spent as SIC, as advocate and defender, threatened to overwhelm him. The scroll that had dangled from his fingers dropped and hit the ground; long eyelashes fluttered closed and briefly Kay wondered if he was dying…

"DA! DA! DA! DA!"

The yell and sound of small feet pounding hard soil and rapidly approaching made him open his eyes and smile brightly. Kay caught the small girl in mid-jump and swung her around as she laughed. Her voice, her laughter, was like a deep drink of the clearest, coldest, most refreshing water Kay had ever tasted; it rejuvenated him to his core and renewed his belief that life was indeed good and there were things worth more than some silly piece of paper…


	12. Gareth

**Disclaimer:** No money being made from this. So on and so forth.

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Gareth yawned and kept trudging to the baths. He was dead tired and filthy from patrolling this stupid island for these stupid Romans. Furthermore, both he and Gaheris had missed the official handing out of the papers of passage. Instead, they'd get to collect theirs in the morning since the Roman politico who'd delivered them was "far too busy" to see them at this hour. And that pissed Gareth off to no end. He'd been here fifteen godsdamn years; earned that paper of passage and who in all the bloody Christian hell that those Roman pigs prattled on and on about did that politico think he was…? Gods help him if he thought asking for a Sarmatian escort back to wherever he came from was a good idea, especially if Gareth was involved in any way.

Snorting, Gareth stepped inside the changing room and began stripping off his sweaty, dirt caked clothes and boots. It felt good just to be out of them – to not feel them sticking and binding. Grabbing a clean towel, he strode out into the baths proper and slid into the warm waters. Leaning back, he thought about what it would be like to finally hold that scroll in his hand…

What was he going to do? Gareth snorted loudly and listened to the echo. Some things he would miss…some things not so much. Though, honestly, Gareth wasn't quite sure what he would do. Much of it depended on what his twin, Gaheris, chose to do. It was well-known that Gareth was the brawn of the siblings while Gaheris was the brain; which wasn't to say Gareth was stupid – he was far from it in fact – he just preferred to exercise his fists more than his mind most days. Therefore, he relied on Gaheris to make the sound decisions where most things were considered.

Sinking under the water, Gareth wondered what his future held; what kind of a plan his sibling was devising…his only requirement was that it contained no more Romans – no more having orders barked at him, no more being reminded of the duty he owed to Rome…if Gaheris could figure out a future without those things, Gareth would be content.


	13. Gaheris

**Disclaimer:** As with all the prior chapters while the idea is mine, the character, sadly, is not.

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Gaheris watched the retreating form of his twin, Gareth, and wondered what was going through his mind. Well, besides curses against the moronic Roman politico who couldn't be bothered to hand them some measly scrolls. And Gaheris' reminder that he needed to keep his temper under control because beating the scrolls out of the same politico would just end up with Gareth's arse sitting in a cell. Gaheris had thought about bathing, but decided against it; he didn't want to speak to his brother just yet because he knew the conversation would revolve around future plans and, truth be told, for once Gaheris had no idea what those plans entailed.

He slowly made his way to his quarters, purposefully taking the longest route to avoid any potential contact with any of his brethren. His stomach growled in protest as he skirted around the tavern; he silenced its protest by patting the saddlebag slung over his shoulder in which was tucked some remnants of bread, cheese and a few small pieces of fruit. It really wasn't nearly enough for after a patrol, but for tonight it would have to do as he reminded himself of far leaner times, when they'd first arrived at this godsforsaken outpost… Shaking his head, Gaheris quickened his pace and soon found himself at his quarters.

Opening the door, he set down the saddlebag and quickly removed his sword belt, followed by his boot daggers and then his boots. After a good stretch, he sat down at the small table and picked through the saddlebag, gnawing on some cheese while he sorted out the rest of the contents. His mind drifted…

He slapped his palms against the tabletop so hard they stung before catching his head with them as it fell forward. A curtain of blonde shielded his face and Gaheris blinked hard, watching in fascination as the droplets fell from his eyes and splashed on the table. It had been years since he'd cried…and what in the name of all the gods was he crying for anyway…?

Inhaling deeply, Gaheris wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands and let out a laugh. He was losing it…going soft as Grav would scold him… But Gaheris knew it was less about going soft and more about simply having no idea what was going to happen next; there would be no one telling him what was expected of him, pointing him in a direction before setting him loose… And that frightened him greatly. Gareth would be looking to him for direction, for ideas…and Gaheris wasn't sure he had any for himself, much less both of them.

Sighing, Gaheris felt his stomach knot and he knew no matter how hungry he'd been food now would be pointless. Rising, he slid off his tunic and undid his breeches while making his way over to the large bed. Climbing in, Gaheris burrowed into the furs; shifting until comfortable and then he let the tears fall in earnest. He'd have to decide, to figure things out in the morning because he couldn't hide from Gareth or that scroll forever.


	14. Bedwyr

**Disclaimer:** I'm not making anything off this and anything you recognize from the movie doesn't belong to me.

**A/N:** It was brought to my attention that I forgot one person in this series…by said person. He swears we penned a chapter and that I lost it…and if you know Bedwyr you know arguing is pointless. Anyway, he thought it through and this is what he came up with. WARNING – it does contain a mention of some potentially disturbing images.

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He pounded on the hunk of metal, slowly and methodically beating it into submission.

"Not so different from what the Romans tried to do…" He muttered to himself and shook his head before thrusting the piece into the forge, watching as the metal heated and began to glow then removed it and resumed his efforts.

Sighing tiredly and quickly losing interest in the endeavor, he dropped it into the trough of water; listening to the pop and sizzle Beds silently wondered if that was what it sounded like when you were cut down in the middle of battle. If that was the last sound some of his brothers had heard. Did death even make a sound or was it completely silent? Shaking his head again before wiping away sweaty strands that clung to his face, Bedwyr banished the thoughts and chose to focus instead on the scroll tucked away in his quarters.

Paper of passage – it allowed him to freely travel Roman lands that he had absolutely no desire to see.

Paper of freedom – as if it garnered some magical power to make the last fifteen years all better… Though, he had to admit, it did free him from having to carry out any more stupid-arsed Roman commands that were issued; to never again have to endure a battle or duty that he did not choose…but he also found that for all the griping they did, he and the others still found themselves up before dawn, often milling about some common area in search of purpose or direction before silently dispersing to go do whatever it was they now did.

Bedwyr snorted hard and spat on the floor. It was a paper that proved beyond a doubt that his weary, battle scarred body and unbroken spirit had endured…survived everything the Romans had thrown at him. He smirked and rubbed his hands together. Best of all, it proved that Rome was not all mighty and they did fail…they had failed to break him, to conquer him…

He sighed and broad shoulders drooped. The real question was what had he survived for?

A few of his brothers spoke of returning home – to Sarmatia – to seek the lives they had been torn from rightfully leading.

Beds scoffed loudly and shook his head, cursing as long strands clung to his sweaty features and he pushed them away with annoyance.

Sarmatia. All he remembered was the near constant moving…and the whispered admonishments from his mother. When she sensed he had gotten far too comfortable in his surroundings, she would grab him and remind him that they would be moving on. It was not if, it was when…because moving was inevitable.

And it was dangerous.

Sometimes, in all that moving and shuffling, the tribes inadvertently violated territorial boundaries. And when that happened, it frequently prompted bloody skirmishes. Men died. Women died. Bedwyr shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight, desperately trying to clear the memories as he recalled the remnants of a skirmish they had encountered – images of children…babies…bodies broken and trampled into the hard Sarmatian dirt…

The dark head snapped up as he heard the sound of his nephews laughing and he smiled slightly. Perhaps – just perhaps – in some odd way being claimed by Rome and packed off to this faraway island had actually saved his life…

Green eyes narrowed as they surveyed his surroundings. Looking down at the piece of metal, he shrugged and decided he'd finish it another day before taking off the heavy apron to go in search of his nephews. After all, not only did Bedwyr despise moving, these boys were young and impressionable…someone had to take responsibility for teaching them the finer points of mischief making. And who on this entire island was more qualified than him?

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And so ends the series. I hope you enjoyed even though it took…yeah…way longer to complete than intended.


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